When I Thought Xena Was A Drunk
by thatisanicecoat
Summary: Drabbles, thoughts, selections from the untold Xena Scrolls.
1. Chapter 1

One evening, as I was untying the packs from Argo, I found that a wineskin had been punctured. The smell clinging to the skin was foul and sharp and I couldn't remember smelling anything like it except at a tavern. It was a potent alcohol, had to be–– and apart from picking up a skine of malt from an inn, we never carried alcohol with us. It was in the fourth season of my traveling with the warrior and I was at that place where I didn't know everything about her habits, but I thought I did. That was a dangerous combination, as in being in such a state of mind, the warrior always managed to surprise me. So, naturally, when I smelled the acrid liquid, I couldn't help but think Xena was hiding something from me.

I had heard about warlords and soldiers taking to drink to quell some of their more violent memories or to wipe their dirtied consciences clean. And I wasn't so oblivious to think that Xena didn't suffer from her past––she did suffer, so incredibly––so I decided to confront her right then and there.

From Argo, I walked the few paces back to the campfire, our bedrolls under one arm, the offending wineskin under the other. Xena sat cross-legged on the ground, facing the glow of the fire and the flickering shadows on the darker trees beyond. At the base of the nearest rock, I unceremoniously dropped the bedrolls to the ground. Xena had taken all her weapons out and laid them in particular positions on the dirt before her; it looked to be like she was reading tarot cards. To her left, near her knee, sat her sword; above lay her boot dagger; in the center, her chakram; to the right, her whip and breast dagger, well _my_ breast dagger that she confiscated from me earlier. She was studying them intently, looking for nicks, scratches, tears. As I came up beside her, she looked up and her mouth twitched, like she wanted to smile. It was in her eyes anyway.

"Ah, Gabrielle. Did you get that skin? I need it."

"You mean this skin?" I hold up the one I had carried over; it looked deflated and pathetic. Xena's face fell.

"Guess I'll have to pick up some more at the next village we pass. No matter, got some on my person, anyway." Xena fishes in her breastplate and retrieves a small flask. I watch in horror. How could I have missed it? Xena's a drunk!

"Ah, Xena?" I stall her. She looks up once more, taking in my uneasy expression.

"What is it Gabrielle? You didn't eat those berries again, did you? I told you the red ones are no good––"

"No, I didn't eat any berries. Look, we have to talk."

"What's wrong?" Xena's face softens and she turns more to face me. All right, I think, I'm doing this for her own good.

"Listen, we've been traveling together for quite some time now, right?"

"Yes..."

"And we've become quite good friends, haven't we?"

"Get to the point, Gabrielle."

"The point is, I care for you." I put my hand on Xena's forearm to emphasize my sincerity. It might have been my imagination, but I think I felt her move closer to me, leaning in.

"You do?" Her eyes are left unguarded, and for the first time I see her. I see the real Xena, not the warrior, not the seductress, not the villain, but the girl unformed from a small Grecian village who had a tavern-owner for a mother and a missing father and two loyal brothers. A woman who had faults and weaknesses, who had been hurt by countless men and women who only sought to profit from her beauty or her skill. A woman who had been beaten down by circumstance and kept down by her own darknesses, who had spoken with gods as equals and conquered whole nations. I also saw the strength in her, the ability to take that tortured past and mold it by her own sheer will into something good, something for a greater purpose than her own desire. And that took courage. I was suddenly rendered speechless and that, my friends, is quite a feat.

"Gabrielle?" That sheet of ice returns, frozen over her blue stare, refracting and distorting all that I had seen in an iridescent curtain.

"I do, Xena. I do care about you––" I eye the flask in her hand and steel myself in turn, "Which is why I need to ask you something."

"Well, go on."

"What's in that flask, Xena?"

She looks to the bottle in her hand, glances back to me and furrows her brow. "Some grain alcohol, why?"

I struggle not to cry out. "What exactly is grain alcohol?"

"It's distilled from rice in the Orient. About the purest form you can get."

So, she's into the hard stuff! This is becoming worse by the second. Where do I begin?

"Listen, Xena," I lean closer to her and place my fingertips on the line of her jaw. It feels firm and finely etched in my hand, and I can follow the movement of her throat as she swallows. I can feel her breath on my face, and in the moment of quiet that I allow, her eyes flutter closed and she's leaning closer still. Sensing this is the moment, I come out with it. "You don't need that anymore. You're stronger than that and I'll help you. I'll always be here for you––"

She pulls away quickly, "What?".

"Huh?"

"What do you mean, I don't need that anymore?"

"Well, I'll just have to come right out and say it then, won't I? Your drinking, Xena. You have a drinking problem!"

"I have a what?"

"Don't deny it. The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem," I say, my hands in front of me in case she decides to deliver any swift blows. Denial makes people violent. I remember that from Ezekias, the town drunk in Potedaeia; he used to start throwing chairs when the barman kicked him out at night; he simply refused to believe the tavern was closing.

"Gabrielle, I don't have a drinking problem."

"Really? Then what is the alcohol for?" I say, more accusatorially than I intended. Xena gives me an incredulous look and gestures to her chakram. She picks it up and holds it firmly in the palm of her large hand. Oh gods, this is it! She's finally going to snap and kill me!

"The grain alcohol, which by the way is near impossible to drink, is used on my chakram. When I oil the metal it gets slippery, the alcohol depletes the oil so I don't loose my grip when I catch the damn thing."

"Oh," is all I can manage to say.

"You thought I was a drunk?" Her eyes are dancing now, glistening is suppressed laughter. Suddenly, the sincere moment that passed between us earlier, flashed into my mind.

"Well, what did _you_ think I meant?"

Xena suddenly becomes something that I had never seen in her before: She blushes, actually blushes. She acts like a bashful young woman, avoiding the stare of a new lover. I suddenly understand completely and the knowledge, rather than sending my head into a sea spin and my stomach into sailor's knots, makes me feel grounded and in control and powerful. And with this new power, comes a sense of responsibility for the woman sitting across from me: I must never hurt her; I must stand by her; and I must be gentle with her. She may be the toughest person I know, a woman who can wield a sword with the skill and thrust of ten men, but she is emotionally one of the most fragile. So, I choose to disregard that blush and relieve the pressure on the ex-warlord.

"Well, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry that I thought you were a drunk, Xena."

That was just enough time to regain her composure and she smirks at me. "It's all right, Gabrielle. But, next time, try talking to me first before you reach any conclusions about my character."

I agreed, but I know now that she hadn't got it all right. I do know her, better than she knows herself. And I also know my place, which is right beside her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Why I Am Now Fond of Noisy Midget Tavern Owners**

This is a tale of those grey morning hours that are spun of some silvery, ethereal thread. Mornings in Greece are sultry, damp, always darkened and when Helios, the gloried charioteer, slaps his reins and makes his triumphant and perilous entrance on the horizon, the brilliance is made only more striking by comparison to those dim mornings. And when a Grecian awakens, she feels as though she could be waking into any history. Unfortunately, I am one who can write fondly of such things, yet get caught into the errant moment of waking too early and suffering incredible irritability.

Last night's storm had tossed us unceremoniously from our trail through the Laconian highlands, and forced Xena and I to take refuge in the nearest village, nestled in the mountain crags. The particular inn we chose is very odd indeed; built by a man who seemed stunted in height and proportion; he remained a perpetual child. The look on Xena's face when she was greeted by this small man amounted to such an attack of giggles that I could barely breathe. The man, Draxius, came only to her leather-trimmed hip and looked up at her tall frame with such a terror. He looked as if he were admiring one of the famed Roman statues of Apollo's torso; caught by the muscle and the grace of a god-like form. I remember looking at Xena like that when we first began traveling together: she _is_an inspiring sight. But, I digress–– the infrastructure of Draxius' inn was built almost in proportion to his smallness, like he raised the doorframes to what he _thought_ was an average person's height. Come to think, the scale did fit my build quite comfortably. Xena, on the other hand, had to hunch and contort herself into a cramped q-shape in most corners of our room. What this also means, is that the floors were not separated as widely as in normally proportioned pre-Mycenaean buildings. Therefore, the movements of the patrons below our room were amplified. We were kept up late with drunken shouts and duel propositions; I think I even heard the bleating of a sheep. Yet, it was the clatter of cookware from the kitchen, the scrape of chairs and stools, the din of the breakfasters that drifted up through the uneven floorboards to awaken me in the early hours.

My eyes snap open and dart to the offending floorboards; willing them to give so that we may crash down upon them and then be able to fall back into slumber until mid-morning. But no, I may have the gift of prophecy but not of telekinesis. I shift quite awkwardly next to Xena, trying carefully not to disturb her so light of a sleep. She never sleeps deeply. If I have any true wish for Xena, it would be for her to get a good, long and deep night of sleep; it would do her a world of good, or merely shift the world's weight from her shoulders. We lay side by side, cramped on an embarrassingly small mattress, which is quite soft, mind you, stuffed with goose down and stitched meticulously together. Xena and I have had it much worse; however, this bed seems better suited to the likes of Draxius. Not that I'm complaining about the proximity between my bedfellow and I. It is long since I floundered in the confused thoughts and clumsily held stares and the shivers–– yes, I know that I am in love with Xena, want her to love me.

A few weeks ago, I was injured by a poison-dipped arrow and nearly killed. The arrow shattered through my shoulder, left me totally incapacitated. But, watching Xena step cleanly off her path to redemption, to abandon the greater good for my benefit, watching her tear her saddle blanket into strips and use them to tie the wood supports of the litter, to watch her struggle with the very real prospect of losing me and her answering grimace and snarl as she fought through hundreds of men to her own end, to know that she would rather perish defending my lifeless body than surrender, to know that she loved me so fiercely, well–– the arrow may well of pierced me straight through the heart. After we awoke from our impromptu nap after the battle, of which Xena not only miraculously survived but won, I looked into her eyes cracked with sleep and her brow bloodied, and knew that things had forever changed between us. We looked at each other for immeasurable moments and the barn loft carried us up into the heavens, and dropped away to leave us in a vast beautiful space where only we lay. I touched her face, crying in not a pretty way, and said,_You__'__re__very__romantic,__you__know?_And she had smiled and everything had changed. I was forgiven for my many blunders, forgiven for almost dying and I was loved.

Since then, Xena and I have been... closer. No, nothing has been said; I have yet to hear any tender confessions or loud barbaric exclamations, have yet to learn the shape of her lips or how their shape fits with mine. But, something is different. I can tell. The thought and my present annoyance make me sigh loudly and violently turn my back to Xena's warm, curved body. I draw my fingers to the corner of the blanket, ready to throw it off and begin my day, when I feel Xena's long arm creep over my hip and settle possessively across my stomach. It is rare when she touches me so deliberately; so I shrug the blanket back over my shoulders and try to sleep once again. I can feel Xena's breast pushing against my back; the rhythm changes, becomes more laboured, less deep; I can feel the quickening thud of her heart.

"Are you awake?" I whisper, in case I am wrong.

No answer. Another bang and crash from downstairs.

"Xena?" I turn in her arms, and when my head settles back on the shared pillow, I find her eyes to be open and damp and ringed with sleeplessness. Sometimes, I'm caught off guard by how desperately blue her eyes are; they remind me of something more staid than the sea, more constant than the sky. I travel back to the first time I saw those eyes, always flicking back to me as she talked with my father about the slavers that came to Potadaeia; even then she couldn't keep those eyes off me. It is the same now, yet her stare does not wander anywhere except within the perimeters of my face. And then, seized by some guiding force of the Fates, Xena tightens her hold on my waist, bunches the material of my shift into a knot in her hand before moving in to press her lips to mine. My last coherent thought was formed in the recesses of my fogged mind: that I was no longer angry and that I am actually quite fond of noisy midget tavern owners.


	3. Chapter 3

**The General's Cape**

I have not often thought of titles, what their implication may mean––king, lieutenant, mother, son, wife. I myself hold the title of Amazon Queen. I am the woman who sits, befit with the garb of Artemis herself, a mask carved out of centuries-old fir wood, wreathed in the feathers of holy birds who circle the peak of Olympus; I am queen to a tribal nation of warrior women. And yet, when I look at myself––always fleetingly in small looking glasses of markets and temples, in the still waters of puddles and ponds––I find a rather demure blonde in scant traveling clothes, a large stick in her hand. Really, I will always look like a peasant girl run away from home. Sometimes, when my reflection isn't in sight, I look at Xena and I make myself in comparison to her. That is to say, when I look at Xena, I look also at myself. When I look to her now, standing by the window, gazing out on the barracks half-lit in the morning twilight, I see only the barest repression of dark thought, power, grace. She truly is the Warrior Princess, even when clad in a sleeping shift. A poem begins to form in my head: I see the face of cursed Queen Margaret, who was tricked by the god Klaes:

One fine day, full of dormant words and sighs,

Margaret walked among the palace gardens.

She abandoned her girl, seeking solace

In solitude, but drew no peace from flowers.

In truth, she longed for purpose not love,

Certainly not the empty stares of men.

Her beauty, thought she, should not fade in history.

It should be heralded like Athena.

Temples should arise in distant mountains,

Stone masons chiseling in her image,

Vestal virgins, prayers to her on men's lips

As they hang the pennons, prepare for battle.

For what was Helen to Margaret? A woman

Equal in design, unchallenged in time.

I wanted to fall into that vision of the phantom queen; but, her face becomes Xena's and my breath draws short at her broken at the hands of the gods.

The sun is threatening on the horizon as Xena and I begin to ready ourselves. Beneath my bare feet is the cold stone of the floor; it makes me shiver, so I jump to the bearskin hearthrug, burying my toes into the fur. This castle is cold. Xena says it is because it is not well insulated with hay between the stone walls. This is a deep reflection of King Vitadore's army too, or so I gathered from Xena's rough estimation–– the Royal Army is hastily built, with a poor selection of material. And it is up to Xena to mold this structure into something that stands tall and sturdy. Today, she leads men to war.

The political situation is a tired tale of two houses united by common hunting ground, with separate honoured gods, and a resulting diversion of cultural ethic. The House of Vitadore is loyal to a god of wealth and commodity; the House of Morticias is loyal to a god of warfare and sacrifice. I think we chose the lesser of two evils. Besides, we wouldn't be here at all if Xena didn't owe a favour to General Axius who commanded Vitadore's force; he had relinquished his rank to the famed ex-warlord with relief when we arrived. I had asked Xena why she owed a favour to this man and she answered in her usual cryptogram: "He was a true friend to Borias". I don't know who this Borias was, but he must have been of some importance for Xena to drag us both into a less-than-holy war. Sometimes it is unclear what is the greater good and what is the lesser evil.

I look to Xena, now in her leather battle dress, an unlaced booted foot on the seat of a chair. Her fingers weave over the laces and she ties them in a complex pattern. I have come to realize that she has a complex pattern for everything; the Warrior Princess operates within one large ritual when she dresses for battle. She adjusts the knee bracers against her skin, tests their placement by flexing the joint. She picks up her gauntlets and begins to pull them over her hands when a knock sounds on the door.

"Enter" she barks.

The door opens to reveal one of the royal guard; over his arm is draped a heavy maroon cape, embroidered with a black mandala design, a gold tassel hanging limply in the air. The soldier salutes his superior, heels together, his hand to his forehead, his eyes lowered in submission.

"My King wishes you to wear a garment of the Commanding Officer," he says, his voice losing some of its confidence at the glare in Xena's cold eyes. She snatches the material from the soldier and throws it on the chair. She dismisses him with a curt wave. As the solider backs out of the room, the poem resumes in my mind:

With Margaret adorned with dreory silk,

Obsidian stones affixed like stars,

Constellations set on a slender neck,

With one fine, thin brow raised in a question,

Margaret sits high, solitary, alone.

Then raises one finger, a gesture of

Dismissal. She casts the chaff and smiles,

Watches as the river of suitors wind

Through the palace chambers, buoyant with yen.

She strikes the blade against flint, her eyes glow

_ Orichalchi,_ flames dancing the dance of

enflamed loins, that votive gift of Hours.

Xena continues to lace the gauntlets, struggling some at the odd angle of the ties. She must have had chamber servants in her warlord days to help with the armor. I move to her side and place my hand on her shoulder.

"Let me help," I say. Xena gives me the ghost of a smile. I hate war, if only for the smile it steals from my companion. The ties come together under my working fingers; Xena bends her elbow. I reach for her breastplate; I lift the armor and it separates, allowing the warrior to slip it over her chest. I tighten the buckles under her arms; I stop when I hear her expel a small breath of discomfort. Her sword lies next to her pallet in the corner, and I pick up the heavy iron weapon, liking the smooth and solid feel of its leather scabbard in my hand. I clip its ties to the laces at the back of Xena's battle dress. When I move to the chair for the cape, Xena puts her own hand on my wrist.

"I'm not wearing that," she says. I stifle a smile.

"But King Vitadore wants you to wear it," I reason.

"It's decorous and pretentious," Xena growls.

"So are you, sometimes." I am smiling overtly now.

"_Gabrielle._"

"Let me see it on you."

"No. It'll just hinder my range in a fight. Mark me as a target."

"So wear it to rally the troops and take it off when you go to battle. They need to see a leader with poise, Warrior Princess." I take the cape from the chair and begin to fix it on the shoulder piece of her breastplate. Xena does not make a move to stop me. When it is properly hooked in place, I unfold the dark material and let it drape like a waterfall over Xena's statuesque frame. The last stanza of the poem comes to me like a rushing river:

"Vengeful Fates!" screamed she, "Klaes, you liar!"

"Drink deeply the blood of my great sorrow.

You twisted, ranging, hollow-hearted of gods!

Tear me limb from limb, my flaw is this:

To be so thirsty for grandeur imbued

The blood of my kinsmen so slain by my hand.

To awake that great Deceit is my undoing.

Klaes, the Pantheon is thine at long last.

But look upon this face, this god-sent bloom

Let it wilt and foresee thy collapse!"

In my mind, Queen Margaret stands as Xena stands before me now, in the power and the mystery of an ancient elegance. There must be something like awe in my eyes, because Xena looks at me with an odd mixture of confidence and embarrassment.

"You look beautiful," I blurt out. A smile dawns on Xena's face like the sun that now reaches into the castle window. A small victory, I think, Love had stolen from War her smile.

"Well, hopefully my beauty can slay a few of Morticias' men. Otherwise, it's useless. Just like this cape."

"You have no sense of aesthetic impact, do you."

Just then, a great roar rose up from the barracks and the battlements. It was a furious din of warriors readying for the fight, full of rancor and rage.

"Time to fight, Gabrielle" says Xena, seeming to glide over the hearthrug toward me. I can just imagine the sparks igniting in the chests of the soldiers as The Destroyer of Nations rides out, her cape caught on the wind sweeping through the plains. Their hearts will flex like muscles at that glorius sight. My own is threatening to expand out of my chest at her advance. I fear for those that are her enemies. "You are to stay within the castle walls and help the healers, yes?" she says. She is attempting to soften her eyes, but they are succumbing to the fever of eminent war, to the chants that rise louder outside the walls. The soldiers are chanting her name. I would agree to anything if she said it with that look in her eyes. I nod. "Good," she says, "There's no need for you to get hurt in this senseless war". She turns from me, ready to exit the room but I call out to her.

"I've already been hurt because this war is senseless," I say.

She turns once more, the cape twirling, her long black hair echoing its arc in the air. With three large strides, I am at once gathered in her arms. Her scent is musky, yet natural like the smell of trees in New Season; it invades my senses. This scent is what is most real to me and to lose it would be my severance from the earth.

"You always bring me back to myself," she whispers into my hair. When I pull back, I see an unforced gentleness to her eyes. This face was Xena, not a queen, not a warrior, not a princess, but a woman whom I loved deeply. And in her eyes, I see my reflection: A woman, not an Amazon or royalty, but loved in turn. And really, stripped of it all––the pennons, the pomp, the procession––we are just two people who love each other.

"I'll always pull you out of the darkness, Xena" I say, for Love had won and War had fallen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning: Some mild drug use and romantics between our favourite bard and warrior. **

**Entering the Realm of Spirits**

We were on the far shorelines of northern Gaul, travelling along with the gusts of biting winds blowing in from the North Sea, and when the darkness descended on us it brought a cloaking frost. With a fire already blazing, and with several furs wrapped around our shoulders, we attempted to settle in for the evening. Yet, no matter how I positioned the doeskins, the wind found a weakness in the layer and whipped through, chilling me thoroughly to the bone. I attempted to concentrate on the scroll that lay unfurled in my lap, but every time I touched the nib of my quill to the page, a jagged line of black ink would run down for the shaking of my hand. Abandonding the muse, I looked an arm's length away to where Xena sat under a fur-collared cloak and blanket, quite content against the trunk of a tree. At her side rested a small leather-woven satchel and her blue eyes were sharp in concentration; she cradled in one hand what looked to be a small piece of narrow driftwood, and in the other, her hunting knife. My curiosity piqued, I attempted to slide myself bodily over the frozen forest floor and peer over into her lap. Almost immediatley, she stopped whatever it was that she was doing, and I felt her eyes on me like a warm rain.

"Gabrielle?" she intoned, and I looked up into disinterested eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked her. She went back to her task a moment, averting her eyes.

"I'm whittling," she said. She does not volunteer any other information. She never willingly volunteers any information. Tight-lipped as a chicken, as my mother used to say, although I never really understood that expression. Do chickens have lips? And even if they do, chickens are known to be rather uncommunicative creatures. So I guess the saying stands. As I pondered over this a while, I absentmindedly watched Xena's hands work. The piece of wood was almost cylindrical now, and Xena positioned the tip of the knife at one end and twirled the blade down into the wood. She made a few careful holes on one side and proceeded to hollow out the centre of the wood.

"What are you making?" I asked, rather without my own permission. I knew better than to interupt Xena when she was winding down. It had been a long journey that day over rocky coastal paths and Argo had tripped at least a dozen times. Xena swore that the mare had injured her ankle. As the warhorse was not limping or showing any signs of injury, I naturally asked how Xena knew that Argo had hurt her leg. It was in her eyes, Xena had said. Then she tapped the side of her head and looked out over the grey landscape of the North Sea. I know, she said.

I don't know why but that moment really struck me, and I had that kind of feeling you eventually have when you look back on your youth and remember the happy moments of your life; that was one of them I think. Maybe it was just because Xena loved her horse. I don't know. When Xena showed any emotion other than anger, annoyance or simple apathy, I was overjoyed. Tonight however, she seemed stilled, meditative almost and I swear she was humming under her breath as she whittled her stick. She had said she enjoys the cold weather more than the warm. I had replied, "You should have been born among the Vikings, warrior queen." Xena had laughed.

"Hmm?" said Xena, drawling my thoughts back to the cold and the sparse campsite. I felt a shiver run through me as the wind picked up. I had forgotten that I had asked a question.

"What?" I replied.

"Did you say something?"

"I think?"

Xena gave me one of her incredulous looks and went back to the knife and the stick.

"Oh! I know what it was!" I exclaimed, "I asked what it is that you're devoting all your meticulous attention to. I know that look of yours. It's like a child sneaking an extra biscuit at dinner."

"You'll see," said Xena, cryptically.

"Oh come on, you know I'll keep bugging you until you tell me," I pandered. "Would you rather answer me or be interrupted by my questions?"

"_You'll _see," she stresses again. Bringing up the instrument level with her eye, she glances to the fire and attempts to see through its centre. "It's almost done," says Xena. With some immortal strength, I quelled my tongue and watched her open the leather satchel at her side and extract a few objects: One was a small jar with a scrap of fabric secured by a piece of twine around its top. Another was a small rounded bowl made of the same driftwood with a hole cut at one side. The wood was so smooth and sun-bleached that it shone like ivory in the light of the fire. Xena fixed the two pieces together, made some minor shavings around the circumference of their joint and suddenly I knew exactly what it was.

"Xena!" I began to laugh. She caught my eye and quirked a smile.

"You've made a pipe?" I said.

"Uh huh," she nodded, looking at her handiwork.

"Tell me you're not taking up tobacco smoking," I teased.

"Nah, not tobacco," she said, her voice rather silvery. "Here," she said, dropping the pipe into my lap. I picked it up and studied it in the firelight; as far as crude smoking pipes carved out of stray beachwood, this one was beautiful. Now that it was closer, I saw intricate swirling patterns etched into the sides of the bowl, which curled around the stem to pick up pattern once more on the long mouthpiece.

"When did you do this?" I asked, fairly in awe.

"I picked up a few pieces of driftwood on the beaches the other day. They looked old and seaworn. Looked like a good ole' pipe could be made out of 'em." She adopted the tone of a seaworthy pirate.

"Well, it's beautiful," I said, "I didn't know you could woodcarve."

Xena looked to me and smirked, quirking an eyebrow and I absolutely knew what she was about to say.

"I have many skills," we both said in unison. And that sent us into fits of laughter.

When Xena recovered, she said, "Gods I'm predictable!" She wiped beneath her eyes.

I shook my head. "In many ways no, but in other ways, yes."

"Thanks for the support, Gabrielle," she deadpanned.

"Anyway," I diverted, "you didn't answer my question."

"And what was that?"

"What do you need a pipe for?" I thought it a very plain question.

"For smoking," replied Xena.

Sometimes it's like talking to a rock. "Smoking what?" I asked. Without answering me, Xena reached to the jar, unwound the twine and loosened the fabric covering its top. She handed the jar to me.

"That," she said.

I looked in at the contents of the jar and saw green clusters of some plant leaf, although its surface seemed to sparkle like crystal and looked almost dewdropped. I brought the jar close to my nose and was quite surprised at its potent scent; it was heady and aromatic, pungently sweet.

"Wow," I said, handing the jar back to Xena, "what is it?"

"I found it growing a while back on the Northern Amazon lands, so I cut a few buds and dried them. When you burn its leaves and inhale its smoke, it sends your mind into a trance and it relaxes your body. Yakut's tribe uses the plant in shamanic ritual to connect themselves to the spirtual realm. However, when I rode with Borias, he had a particular craving for this plant and well, it wasn't to connect to any spiritual realm."

"Lets try it," I said immediately, enthralled with the possibilities of what nature can surprise us with.

"Hold on, soldier," said Xena, knocking her shoulder into mine, "Did I say you could try it?"

"You're kidding, right? Please, Xena," I condescended, "I've been drunker than a priest's daughter, had my nutbread spiked with henbane and you remember that time I ate the red berries, the _shiny_ red berries."

"Oh, I remember that all right." She smiled at the memory of my hallucinatory ramblings and ill-tuned motor skills.

"So I can handle a little _trance_, you know?"

Xena looked at me and smiled. "All right, we'll do it together. Come closer, it's freezing."

"Big tough warrior princess," I said, scooting up next to the warmth of said warrior princess.

"Mmhmm," she hummed, working to break apart the flowerets and settle them into the bowl of the pipe. She then handed the pipe to me and crawled forward to the fire to extract a burning stick. Its embered end cast a finger high flame and Xena knelt next to me, dragging the fur over the bare skin of her legs once more. She motioned for the pipe and positioned the stem between her lips. With one mischievious look to me, she lit the bowl and I watched as the herb glowed a bright orange in the darkness. Xena inhaled sumptuously, her breath making a glorioulsy alive, hollow sound. Leaning to rest the end of the stick back in the fire, she settled the pipe on her lap and looked back at me. There was something swimming behind her eyes and I knew the glassy look I found there was borne of the drug soaking through her body. With a long, tenuously slow exhale, a stream of thick white smoke emitted from her lips and she blew perfect rings into the chilled night air.

A lazy smile drew across Xena's face. "Just like I remember," she said, her voice low and rumbling.

"My turn," I said, scooting forward in anticipation. Xena lifted an eyebrow in that characteristic manner she has and handed me the still-smoking pipe. I took the pipe into my hand and put my mouth to its stem; it was then that I realised I had no idea what I was doing. "Uh, help?" I muttered.

Xena laughed gently and took the pipe from my hand. She extracted the stick from the fire once again and lit the pipe, inhaling deeply. However, instead of exhaling, she crooked her finger at me and beckoned me closer. Frowning, I lent in and was quite surprised when Xena put a few long, pale fingers beneath my chin and pulled my face to hers. Wide-eyed, I let her drawl me in, and quivered when I felt the hovering warmth of her lips near mine. I pulled back.

"Xena?" I exclaimed, "What are you doing?"

"Giving you my breath, oh bard," she replied, exhaling the smoke with a laugh.

"O-oh..." I stuttered.

"You thought I was going to kiss you?" she asked.

"I..." I paused, attempting to conceal my utter embarrassment. But the twinkle in Xena's clear eyes told me to give up the ghost. "Uh, yeah, I did."

Xena shook her head and laughed again at my expense. "Well, shall we try this again?"

I nodded my head and watched as she lit the pipe and inhaled. Knowing what to expect now, I inched closer to Xena's face and tilted my head so that our mouths were aligned. I felt her warm fingers slide around the back of my neck.

"Just breathe in," she instructed and I could feel the formation of her words on the thin air between us. And then, she pressed her lips to mine and I inhaled as she exhaled. The sensation was one I will never forget, as if our very breath was joined in a moment. I felt the smoke swirling through my lungs, a heavy sensation on my chest and the feel of Xena so close to me, inside me. A sense of loss closed around my mind when Xena withdrew her mouth and I remember leaning forward in effort to make her stay.

"Hold the smoke in your chest as long as you can," she whispered near my temple. I did as she said and when I couldn't take it anymore, I let the smoke out slowly as I had seen her do earlier. The next thing I knew, my head rested on Xena's fur-clad shoulder and her arms drew, like warm environs, around my body.

"Gods," I whispered.

"Mmm..." I felt her reply more than heard it. "Come here." We repositioned ourselves so that I leaned with my back against Xena's chest and her arms came to rest once more around my hips. I no longer felt cold, but warm everywhere like a flame jumped from the fire and licked through my entire body.

"How do you feel?" she asked, her chest humming against my back.

"Like a fog that sweeps down the side of mountain into a valley," I replied as exactly as I could.

I felt Xena chuckle easily. "Always the poet," she said.

"This is wonderful."

"Very relaxing," she agreed. We watched the flames in the fire, as they teased the night air and kept the darkness at bay. I can never remember being more entranced by a fire in all my life.

"Where do you think fire comes from?" I asked.

"Prometheus, you know that."

"No, I mean, why fire? Doesn't it mystify you that something is so elemental, so necessary to life on earth?"

"I guess so," replied Xena, for once humouring my philosophical mood. Her arms tightened around me and never before had I felt so contented, so protected, so loved in all my life. Xena took a long breath. "I think these gifts––fire, air, water, earth––come from somewhere far greater than the gods. And I think if we knew where, we would know the secrets of the universe. Some day, we'll know. But not until many lifetimes from now."

"Do you think we'll know each other then? At the end of the world?" I asked, suddenly horrified by the fact of death and the possibility of losing my friend in the annals of time.

"Gabrielle, I'd sooner watch the whole world burn than leave you." She put a hand on my chest, over my heart, and I felt her lips touch the edge of my ear. The effect was tantalisingly seductive. "Love is the only eternal thing."

I closed my eyes at her words and let the enormity of my love for her wash over me. Silence hung in the chilled air, and we relished our ability to take comfort in it. Life for Xena and I rushed like a river after a monsoon; we were always caught in a tide of war and turmoil. Our lives were given up to something far greater than our own happiness. And rarely, if ever, did we allow ourselves to sit in one another's embrace and relish the stillness. I felt a smile work itself over my features. Xena's hand found mine under the blanket and her thumb moved in slow, concentric circles over the ridge of my knuckles.

"Gods, I love you," I breathed. Her thumb stopped moving on the back of my hand and I felt Xena's heartbeat quicken; my own followed in tandem. Had I just said that? The words had been uttered before in times of great stress, in times where our lives were threatened or at the impasse between forgiveness and anger. Never had either one of us said it without some kind of catalyst. It was then, that I noticed the silence. She had not given one of her concilliatory smirks and repeated the words back to me in appeasement. I tilted my head up to look at her and found her gazing steadfastly into the fire. Veils seemed to be drawn over her eyes and she had that look she gets when she travels mind over body into the recesses of her tortured memory. To me, Xena had never looked more beautiful. The shadows of the fire cast sharp angles onto the planes of her face and her features became accentuated, and I knew that I had never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. A terror gripped at me then, and the idea that Xena was trying to find the words to let me down gently swept every feeling of contentment I had known heretofore.

And then, suddenly, she spoke. "Would it really have been so bad?" she said.

I was confused. "Huh?"

"Earlier, when I was giving you the smoke, would it have been so bad if I were actually going to kiss you?"

I felt all four winds blow through my body. "N–no." Her bodied released its tension behind mine and it seemed like our bodies were melting together in the heat of our passion. And then, her lips found the bare skin of my neck and moved deftly and softly against it. A shiver ran through me and the only thing keeping my body from floating up along with the embers of the fire into the air, were her arms around me. Her lips travelled up the column of my neck, teased my earlobe, and I felt her teeth nibble at the fold of my ear. She inhaled sharply my scent and her hands burrowed under my own and found the skin of my stomach beneath the blanket. Her hands were made of fire and I found myself tilting my head further to the side to give her better access. Everything felt so wonderful.

Then, her hand escaped the confines of the fur and swept up the frame of my body to rest under my jaw. Gently, she turned my head so that I looked up at her and she kissed her next words to my chin. "I love you, Gabrielle."

Nothing in the whole world could have stopped me from moving my head up to capture her lips with my own. Xena and I had kissed before, but like those immortal words, it was always in lieu of a need to communicate a goodbye or a gesture of pain. It was never like this. Xena's lips moved against mine as if she were trying memorize their shape. And when they parted against mine, I felt the tip of her tongue move across my bottom lip. Turning more fully in her arms, I welcomed her tongue into my mouth and felt full to the brim and then overflowed with love for this woman.

When we parted to take gulps of the cold night air into our lungs, I smiled a smile of unfettered joy.

"Is this the spiritual realm?" I asked.

Xena laughed and kissed me quickly. "You know, I think it is."


End file.
